The Year of the Runaways

by Sunjeev Sahota

He nodded, said nothing.

  ‘This is for your boss,’ and she held out an envelope. ‘Avtar gave it me yesterday. So thank you. For the doctor.’

  ‘Wasn’t me.’

  ‘Still.’

  Too scared to dial an ambulance, Tochi had called Malkeet, who rang back a few minutes later to say a doctor was on his way and what payment they were both expecting.

  ‘I’ll leave it here,’ Narinder said, placing the envelope on the windowsill.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She smiled flatly and nodded to leave. He wanted to punish her for denying them a chance. He wanted to hold her thighs apart and suck her cunt into his mouth. He wanted to make her happy. His hands jerked out of their pockets.

  ‘Kanyakumari,’ he said.

  She turned round.

  ‘Where I’d go if I could go anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t know it.’

  ‘It’s at the end of India. Nothing but sea from there.’

  ‘It sounds very beautiful.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  She tilted her head to the side. ‘Why there?’

  ‘Because it’s the end and there can be no more false dreams.’

  ‘Only real ones? Then are they still dreams?’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ he said.

  ‘To go there?’ she asked, lightly mocking.

  ‘I’m leaving here.’

  She didn’t seem surprised. ‘When?’

  ‘Maybe two weeks. After Christmas.’

  She nodded, wished him luck. He heard her on the stairs, then he picked up the phone to Ardashir and asked if that building job in Spain was still going, and when could he start?

  The doctor – a baby-faced elder Muslim with a short, coarse beard, his upper lip hair-free – had advised going to hospital, saying that all the symptoms pointed to a severe lack of nephron reabsorption, which meant things weren’t quite balancing out in his body. ‘It’ll be a small operation followed by a few weeks’ rest. You don’t want to risk septicaemia. And you’ve got a visa on file. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  In the meantime, to help manage the pain, he left them with some insulin which Randeep drew into the syringe and passed to Avtar. They’d got good at doing this over the last week, three times a day. Avtar passed the syringe back to Randeep and started to retighten his bandage.

  ‘You should have told me about the operation,’ Randeep said. ‘Does Lakhpreet know?’

  ‘No. And it’s staying like that.’

  ‘You should go to hospital soon, though. Before it gets worse.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He was worried about the recovery time. A few weeks. Which probably meant months. It might as well be forever.

  He rang home again that afternoon and this time, at last, someone answered. His father.

  ‘Thank God. Are you OK? I’ve been ringing every day for the last week.’

  He said he was fine, his mother was fine, his brother was fine, the shop was fine. Everything was fine and Avtar wasn’t to worry and should concentrate on his studies.

  ‘Papa, what’s happened? You’re not telling me something. Put Navjoht on.’

  ‘Nothing’s happened. There was just some difficulty with some men last week.’

  ‘What difficulty? Did they do anything to you?’

  ‘We had to give them a few things.’

  ‘What things? Did they hurt you?’

  ‘The TV, the radio. Nothing important. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘Uff, it was nothing. I’m fine now.’

  He called Bal straight away, shouting at him to leave his family alone, that he’d kill him if they went near his papa again.

  ‘All your fault, man. We’ve given you chance after chance. You’ve got one week to settle up or we’ll do more to your pop than just take his TV.’

  He didn’t sleep that night. He kept thinking of their old neighbours, Mr and Mrs Lal. How they’d been thrown out of their home, how broken and humiliated they’d looked.

  He went to the chip shop in the morning, knocking on the rear door and asking the new gori if she could fetch Malkeet, please.

  ‘Mal-kit!’ she shouted. ‘One of your lot!’

  Malkeet emerged from the service area, telling the girl – Megan – to go out front. Avtar hadn’t seen him since the drama with the chickens. He seemed to have got even fatter.

  ‘How are you, my friend?’ Malkeet said. ‘Feeling better?’

  Avtar held out the crumpled notes. ‘Could you wire this across to my parents’ account? They need it now.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, taking the money. ‘I’m going to the bank. I won’t even charge you a fee.’

  ‘Thank you. Is Harkiran here?’

  ‘He’s on afters.’

  ‘OK.’ Then: ‘Is there any work, bhaji?’

  Malkeet shook his head. ‘It’s quiet. Always is before Christmas.’

  ‘I’ll clean the floors.’

  ‘Avtar.’

  ‘The toilets.’

  ‘Avtar.’

  ‘You must have something.’

  ‘Maybe in the new year.’

  Behind Malkeet, Tochi came into view, working, earning, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his orange uniform.

  In the afternoon, he and Randeep tried the takeaways on Ecclesall Road, the corner shops in Darnall. Someone mentioned a Muslim clothes outlet up in Ridgeway, but when they got there the car park was empty and the factory seemed to have been closed for some months. They came straight back to the house, Avtar slamming the bedroom door shut.

  ‘What a wasted bhanchod journey.’

  ‘Maybe we can sell something,’ Randeep said, and they looked around the room and down at themselves and said nothing more about that idea.

  Avtar didn’t go down for breakfast – he had no appetite, he’d hardly slept – and lay on his mattress trying to think where there might be work. Nothing came to mind. He heard the kitchen door opening and moved to the window. It was Tochi, in the yard. He looked like he’d only come out to catch some air, head tipped up. He remained in that pose for several minutes, unmoving, as if in some staring contest with the sky, and then he zipped up his jacket, decisively, and went to work.

  Avtar climbed to the landing and tried Tochi’s door. It was locked, so, limping slightly, he fetched the metal pole from his rucksack. The first lock broke away and he listened out, for Randeep, for the girl. Nothing. He broke off the remaining two and then the gentlest of touches sent the door swinging open and he walked right into Tochi’s room.

  He called Bal, the five thick rolls of money stuffed into his jeans pockets.

  ‘Come and get your money.’

  ‘Great. We’ll be there tomorrow.’

  ‘Now. I won’t have it tomorrow.’

  Bal arranged for one his local cousins to meet Avtar outside the gardens. Avtar passed the cash over. Then he waited. He sat in the kitchen with the lights off and he waited.

  Tochi stopped off at the station – he needed his tickets to London – but the counters were all closed, the green blinds laddered down. He spent some time trying to work the self-service machines, then gave up and went back to the house. He unlocked the kitchen door, not flicking the switch. He could see Avtar sitting there, at the table. Tochi said nothing and went through the beads and up the two flights. He saw that his door was broken. Inside, the bottom drawer of the wardrobe had been pulled out, the dummy panel smashed through. He went downstairs.

  ‘Give me my money.’

  ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘Give me my money.’

  ‘I said it’s gone.’

  ‘Where’s it gone?’

  Avtar stared. ‘You stole my job. I stole your money.’

  ‘Where’s it gone?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Tochi punched him, his knuckles slamming into Avtar’s cheekbone. ‘Get me my money.’

  His nose was bleeding. His face ached. ‘Fucking thieving chamaar.’ He sp
at in Tochi’s face and charged forward. But he was weak now, his blows thin, and Tochi easily pushed him off.

  ‘Get me my money,’ he said again, drawing his fist back behind his head and driving, catapulting it into Avtar’s stomach. Avtar heaved, his head snapping back as if it was his face that had been hit. Another punch, once more into the stomach, where it was most tender. ‘Get me my money.’ Avtar staggered into the cooker, arms protecting his middle. He felt blood rise up his throat. He fell sideways onto the floor and could see his feet moving, scrabbling, though he had no sense of this.

  All through the night he couldn’t stop shaking. Randeep kept fetching him water. He gave him another shot of insulin, too, though it made no difference. He was still grimacing, in terrible pain. Randeep knelt beside him and cradled the back of his friend’s head and brought his lips to the water. Avtar sipped, then flopped back.

  ‘Maybe we should go to the hospital,’ Randeep said.

  Avtar didn’t seem able to speak.

  ‘You’re not dying, are you?’ Then, louder, ‘Bhaji?’ and this time Avtar opened his eyes and groaned weakly. ‘Would you like some more water?’ Randeep asked. A single nod. He laid Avtar’s head back down on the pillow, gently, picked up the glass and hurried to the bathroom. When he returned, Avtar was shaking again, shaking violently all over, in a way that reminded Randeep of the jackhammer at the old hotel site.

  The snow came at dawn, quietly, gracefully. She brought her hands together in prayer, then didn’t know what to say, or to whom. She turned away from the window. Tochi entered the kitchen.

  ‘Still no word,’ she said.

  He nodded. He withdrew two slices of bread from the fridge and spooned some cold sabzi onto each. He sat down and ate.

  ‘Is that it? Aren’t you even sorry for what you did?’

  The side gate rattled and Randeep came past the window and into the house. His eyes were red, as if he’d been up all night.

  Narinder stepped towards him. ‘How is he?’

  He had his back against the door, looking at Tochi at the table. ‘They don’t know. They operated. They say they have to wait. To see how far the poison has spread.’

  ‘But he’ll be all right? Randeep?’

  He said nothing. She told him to sit down, that he must be hungry, and got the tava out to make roti. Tochi washed his hands and reached for his boots.

  ‘Are you going to work?’ She looked at the oven clock. ‘Already?’

  ‘I’m going to the station first.’

  Her face turned into a question.

  ‘To get a ticket. I told you. I’m going to London. And then to Spain.’

  ‘Spain? You mean you’re not coming back?’

  Randeep snorted. ‘Running away.’

  Tochi came right up to him, squaring up. ‘I never run away.’

  ‘I’m not scared of you,’ Randeep said. He shoved Tochi aside and went up to his room.

  ‘Did you have to do that?’ Narinder said. ‘Can’t you see how he’s suffering?’

  Without a word, Tochi put on his jacket and shut the door behind him. She listened to him leave, then moved slowly to the table and stood with one hand on his chair. She thought of Tochi’s face, of Randeep’s, of Avtar lying in hospital. Who would be a man, she thought, in a world like this.

  Upstairs, at the window, Randeep took the phone from his pocket. He could still see Avtar’s terrified face when the doctor said he might very well have to lose his foot. He’d promised Avtar he’d contact his family and let them know what had happened. First, though, he had a call to make for Narinder. The receptionist transferred him through to Vakeel Sahib.

  ‘Randeep!’ the lawyer said. ‘How’s my boy?’

  ‘Please start the divorce. It’s been over a year.’

  They went over a few details, the lawyer confirming he’d already applied for Randeep’s stamp. ‘I’ll just need the girl to send me a copy of her passport. Fax or email will do. Can you ask her?’

  ‘I’ll do it now.’

  He heard the lawyer laugh. ‘You sound like you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘No hurry,’ Randeep said, as he watched Tochi heading down the road, hands in his pockets, on his way to Spain. ‘But there’s no point in waiting.’

  EPILOGUE

  Tickets. She double-checked the reservation, what time she had to be at St Pancras, then slotted the orange cards back into her purse and put the purse under her pillow. Her suitcase was packed and ready at the side of her old dressing table. She went downstairs. The dishwasher needed emptying and after that she wiped down the kitchen surfaces. There was enough milk to last them another day and the fruit bowl held plenty of bananas, the only food that had never got stuck in her father’s dentures. She wasn’t sure why she still bought so many. She wrung out the dishcloth, left it by the sink, and went down the hall and into the front room.

  ‘I’m still not happy about you going on your own,’ Tejpal said.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ She sat on the sofa, her reflection warped in the fifty-inch TV screen that dominated the room.

  ‘We could have scattered the ashes here,’ Tejpal said.

  ‘It’s not what he would have wanted.’

  ‘Then maybe take Sabrina with you, if I can still get a ticket.’

  Sabrina, Tejpal’s wife of four years, looked up from her iPhone. She seemed horrified, as if she’d been asked to donate a limb. ‘I really don’t think so.’

  ‘And what was wrong with Heathrow?’ Tejpal said. ‘Why are you going all the way to Manchester?’

  ‘Maybe she’s meeting someone,’ Sabrina suggested, laughing. ‘A secret affair. How funny would that be?’

  ‘Sabrina!’ Tejpal said. ‘Don’t be so rude.’

  Sabrina sighed luxuriously and as she stood her emerald sari shimmered against her long brown arms. ‘I want to go. The table’s booked for eight.’

  He started to lace up his shoes, presenting everyone with a view of his head. Forty this year, he was receding determinedly. So much so, it looked as if he’d taken to some sort of spray-on thickening agent. Narinder smiled discreetly and bent to her newspaper. She read a paragraph, until she felt forced to look up again, and saw Sabrina mouthing something to Tejpal. And then Tejpal spoke:

  ‘Narinder, actually, I wanted to say that while you’re away we thought we might get the place valued. You know, to get an idea.’

  She nodded. She wasn’t surprised. She’d overheard Sabrina on the phone to one of her friends about the matter, about getting out of this dreary old house, about the problem of the sister. ‘That sounds good,’ Narinder said.

  ‘We’ve not decided anything, so I don’t want you to worry. And of course you’re part of this family as much as anyone.’

  ‘But we wanted to be upfront with you,’ Sabrina said, taking over, as if she thought her husband was pussyfooting. ‘We want to move closer to my family. They can help with children and whatnot. If we ever get round to having any,’ she added in a pointed aside. ‘And there’s nothing really keeping us here. Tej’s office say he can get a transfer easily enough.’

  ‘But nothing’s been decided,’ Tejpal said, a little desperately. ‘And you can stay with us, you know, as long as—’

  ‘Or you could start your own life,’ Sabrina said. ‘There are loads of great one-bedroomed flats around. I printed some off the net for you. And you could get a job or something. It’s not too late. Because don’t you think you should work? Like, live in the twenty-first century?’

  ‘When did she have the time?’ Tejpal said.

  ‘I just think women died so we could work and be equal. It’s disrespectful to their memory if we just sit around.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sabrina! She was looking after Dad for ten years. What the hell did you do?’

  ‘And what the hell did you do? And why should I? He wasn’t my dad.’ And then, muttering, ‘Everyone loves a martyr.’

  Tejpal had let Sabrina believe one version of the story. That she h
ad forsaken her future to take care of her ill father. In reality, when she returned home from Sheffield, without her turban, her kara, her kandha, and told her family she wasn’t going to marry – not Karamjeet, not anyone – Baba Tarsem Singh had slapped her. It was the one and only time in his life he’d done that. Tejpal bellowed, a frantic Karamjeet tried to talk her round, to the wedding, to God. She said she’d made up her mind and nothing could change that, however much she might wish it. Baba Tarsem Singh was forced to apologize to Karamjeet’s parents, lowering himself in front of everyone. Less than a year after Narinder’s return he had his second stroke, leaving him unable to care for himself. He lived for another ten years and then one morning Narinder came into his room, his toothbrush and glass of sugared water on her tray, and found him sitting up against the headboard, his heavy head sunk forward and turban falling off.

  *

  You’d think the rani was coming. His mother had said so at least a dozen times in the last week. He didn’t care. He was excited. It wasn’t often he had visitors, and he’d not seen her since that damp, formal day in the solicitor’s office in Southall, when he’d waited for her to come and sign the divorce papers. Afterwards, they’d shaken hands and she’d hurried off down the road, unfurling her umbrella, hoping to catch the 2.15 back to Croydon. And now here he was, all these years later, waiting again.

  A knock on the window startled him. Avtar. ‘The door’s locked,’ he mouthed.

  Randeep’s hand went to his forehead, in apology, as if to convey he was losing his mind. He got up to let him in.

  ‘Is she staying a few weeks?’ Avtar said, eyeing all the food laid out on the kitchen counter.

  Randeep carried on to the front room and sat down, clasping and unclasping his hands.

  ‘What time’s she coming?’ Avtar asked, sitting down too.

  ‘Her train gets in at 11.35. She said she’d get a taxi. Do you really think it’s too much for lunch?’

  ‘I think it’s too much for Switzerland.’

  Randeep frowned. ‘Oh well.’

  ‘Why so nervous, man?’

  ‘Be serious, yaar.’

  Avtar pointed. ‘New haircut?’

  The taxi turned into the cul-de-sac and parked outside a modern semi with a neat stamp of a front garden. She didn’t remember ever coming to this part of Sheffield before. Beauchief, the address in her hand read. It was one of those new estates, where every house was of the same orange brick.